


Feverishly Pitched

by theoldgods



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Hand Jobs, Leather Jackets, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:32:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just informal mission maintenance—run over and check on a mark for an hour <i>without</i> soliciting him for prostitution. (Un?)fortunately for Harry, Merlin, top of his recruit class in seduction, is along for the ride and has some good conflict management skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feverishly Pitched

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Feverishly Pitched](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981637) by [AppleTrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleTrees/pseuds/AppleTrees)



> > The Chinese translation can also be found off-archive [here](http://www.movietvslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=165703&mobile=no)!
> 
>   
> This is a fill for [this request](http://dressing-room3.livejournal.com/405.html?thread=177813#t177813) on the kink meme, which asked for some Harry/Merlin inspired by Colin and Mark's physical appearances in _Fever Pitch_ (1997)—I hope this suits! In my head this is the late 80s, when both are still fairly new to Kingsman and before the full adoption of the glasses, but you needn't read it then if you don't like.
> 
> As always, I'm an American whose grip on subtle Britishisms can be loosey-goosey—constructive Britpricking is always welcome.

“The last thing is informal,” Arthur tells him at the end of the meeting, just as Harry’s getting ready to stand and finally say his goodbyes, and Harry raises an eyebrow over the rim of his empty scotch glass. “I need a quick confirmation run-by on a target tonight—you know Percival has been running the suspected arms financier Smyth for the past few months, yes?” When Harry nods, he continues, “He has a son, something of a loose cannon despite his father’s best attempts to school him—”

“Arthur—”

“The boy’s selling himself, Harry, but I _don’t_ want you to trap him.”

“Oh?” Harry puts the empty glass on the edge of Arthur’s desk with rather more force than is strictly necessary. “Wouldn’t want to trespass on Percival’s territory, I suppose.”

“No one in this organization is trapping a petulant nineteen year old when he’ll do it for us.” Arthur’s voice leaves a sour taste at the back of Harry’s throat, though Harry can’t put a finger on why this particular sentence, of all the sneering that Arthur puts forth, has such an effect. “He’s far more daft than any guttersnipe would be and will get picked up by the first plainclothes who tries to pull him; I will not stain any of my knights by association.”

_Because fucking the fallen son of greatness would be worse than fucking a true chav rentboy, in your eyes_ , Harry realizes, swallowing down a comment. Arthur continues talking, staring at the ceiling as if he cannot quite believe how even the upper classes have been swept away by criminal blight these days.

“Before we figure out how to get a plainclothes to pull him, however, we’ve been following his schedule. He is erratic at best, but he seems unable to avoid trying after Saturday matches—there’s a street corner not far from the pitch that’s used every night anyway, and he is obviously of elegant enough stock to get attention quickly when he deigns to appear.”

“Adrenaline is a potent aphrodisiac.” It’s worth the glare Arthur gives him to get a bite in.

“I want you to run by and confirm that he’s in fact there,” Arthur says, as if Harry had never interrupted.

“That’s all?”

“And confirm who picks him up. The reports are that he has a tendency for the—exotic. For anyone and anything rough. I suspect he may be trading more than bodily fluids with them.”

“Ah.” Harry sighs. “Perhaps not such a prodigal son after all.”

Arthur is, if nothing else, skilled at ignoring others’ contributions to a conversation. “Merlin will have some things for you in the lab, and directions to the pitch area as well. If you leave in the next hour, you should get there just as the last match is breaking up. An easy visual confirmation and a report back and you’re off for the rest of the evening.”

“Thank you, Arthur.” Harry cannot keep a tinge of bitterness from his voice; it must be a sign of a decent workplace, despite everything, that he does not see the need to even try. His legs tremble as he gets to his feet.

“Take the boy with you,” Arthur tells him, as he’s turning away.

“I thought I wasn’t picking—”

“Not that boy. Ours.”

Harry stares at Arthur over his shoulder. “You mean—Merlin is a full-grown adult. And our magician.” _And only a few years younger than I am_ , he adds silently, wondering exactly how infantile they all look to Arthur’s eyes.

“This is an easy swing-by, there’s nothing else on, he’s been housebound for months now, I refuse to have rusty agents, and he fits the boy’s profile far better than you do with that ridiculous head of his.”

_Hello, Merlin—you’ve been selected to help me watch a spoiled nineteen year old pick up men because you look like the kind of lowlife scum he likes._ A brilliant conversation starter, considering that they haven’t met in person in something like five weeks now . At least it might make him laugh, the low Caledonian rumble Harry’s gotten rather attached to having in his ear since Merlin joined two years back.

With that in his head, he nods and leaves, willing the mental image of Merlin pulling a nineteen year old to blow Arthur from his mind.

 

* * *

The “things” Merlin has are, it turns out, jeans and battered leather jackets that do surprisingly little against the chilly spring evening air. Harry can’t help but think that Kingsman must have better casual middle-class greaser wear stored away somewhere, but then again, this _is_ an informal mission, just spying on the sexual habits of a nineteen year old.

“I don’t think I’m rough enough for this,” Merlin remarks as they take their positions, leaning against the wall of a bar within eyesight of the designated corner. In the background, the last stragglers of players and family are leaving the football pitch, their voices echoing in the pools of darkness around the floodlights.

Harry fiddles with the zip of his jacket. “Better than me.”

“Too right.” Merlin laughs, and Harry feels it resonate throughout his body. “You look like a geezer, Christ. Here, old man.”

Harry’s breath hitches as Merlin reaches over and runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, making bits and pieces stand on end. “I’m only twenty-nine. You’re the one Arthur called a ‘boy.’”

“Then you’re a teenager, I guess,” Merlin tells him, stepping back to eye his work. “Much better.”

Harry shakes his head to scatter his hair further, envying Merlin’s baldness as he never has before. “Why don’t I just stand and shake like a wet dog?”

“Look, Arthur told me about the mission before he sent you down to fetch me, Daddy.” If Merlin notices the color this brings to Harry’s cheeks, he says nothing. “In and out, real easy like, watch to see if he likes the rough on a Saturday night; nice kiddy play for the tech geek. Old hat for a seasoned guy like you.”

“Too bad we haven’t invented anything that can view things from afar and record them for posterity.”

Merlin grins. “That doesn’t involve me stretching my legs, hey?” His smile fades as he leans the top of his head against the wall. “I know it’s scut work, Galahad, babysitting duty. I’m glad you agreed, though—I’m not sure Arthur would let me out alone.”

“You trained the same as we all did,” Harry objects, though he knows Merlin is, in all likelihood, correct, if Arthur is willing to call their magician, the man in whose hands so much communication rests, a boy. “And anyway, could be worse, I suppose. He could have come _himself_ for a little leg stretching.”

“God forbid,” Merlin murmurs, but his smile is back, and Harry’s heart leaps briefly into his throat at the sight of it.

They fall silent then—one by one the pitch lights are flickering off. It’s early yet—no more than eight by Harry’s watch—but already a young man, no older than twenty-five, is standing on the corner with the practiced casualness of a rentboy. He’s in jeans and white high-tops and his hair is brown instead of the promised blond—not young master Smyth. Merlin sighs.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he mumbles. His eyes are on the corner but his hand is rummaging in a jacket pocket; a moment later he pulls out two fags and a lighter and raises an eyebrow in Harry’s direction.

Like most Kingsmen, Harry smokes only when required to for missions—no one’s lungs can combine both smoke and Kingsman duties, and dependence of any kind is dangerous. They’ll need a reason for idling, so Harry nods and reaches out a hand. Merlin inserts both fags into his mouth, however, and lights them one at a time before before removing one and offering it to Harry.

“Very smooth.”

“A gentleman always lights his partner’s cigarettes for him.”

Harry probably had heard that one at some point in training, although he’s positive that if he had, the indirect object at the end would have been feminine and not masculine. His recruitment class’s social decorum module had been led in part by Arthur himself, after all. Instead of replying, he takes a drag, letting his lips linger over the fag.

They talk of nothing, idle smokers’ chat, for the next ten minutes as other young men appear on the corner, none of them fitting the Smyth profile; Harry asks Merlin about a fictitious girlfriend and Merlin leads Harry in a vigorous discussion of Arsenal’s most recent performance. Harry has just extinguished his butt against the wall and is casting around for a rubbish bin when movement makes Merlin, still resolutely smoking down to the filter, flick his eyes in the direction of the corner.

Harry remains on target, not looking that way himself until he’s tossed his butt in the nearest bin and had a stretch. By then he can see what has Merlin looking disinterestedly in any direction aside from the corner: a tall blond, skin unnaturally tanned, in sharply pressed khakis and an artfully wrinkled white linen dress shirt, leaning against the stop sign. The original corner boy stands right behind him, shooting him an occasional dirty look, but Smyth remains absorbed in the street ahead of him, grinning at nothing in particular.

Smyth’s only been there for five minutes, tops, when the first car of the night turns down the street and slows. The boys immediately hop to attention, but Smyth has dropped something on the sidewalk and leans over to pick it up, tilting his hips clumsily in the car’s direction. Harry peers at the driver through street lights reflecting off the windscreen glass and notes a craggy face and bald head.

“Not bad profiling by Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, extinguishing his own fag against the wall as Smyth approaches the door and the passenger side window rolls down. “Unless I’m meant to run in there and pick him up myself, though, I’m not sure why it matters.”

“Maybe you’ll be on plainclothes detail when he wants to make the kill.” Smyth is leaning against the car door, looking in at its driver from beneath artlessly hooded eyelids.

Merlin smiles. “You think you’re joking, Hart, but I had the highest seduction skills in my recruit class. Better than his, anyway.”

“And yet he’s the one going home with baldy,” Harry retorts as the door opens from the inside and Smyth slides into the passenger seat. “Suspiciously quickly for someone so clumsy and unsubtle.”

“It’s a streetcorner whore, not the Prince of Wales,” Merlin remarks, but he’s frowning as hard as Harry is. “Still, if I were gonna make a pick-up look like, well, _that_ sort of pick-up, that’s about how I’d play it.”

The car trundles toward them at a light cruising pace, drives past the bar—and comes to a halt. Sweat tickles the back of Harry’s neck.

“Fuck,” Merlin growls, barely audibly, before reaching out for Harry’s jacket lapel and pulling him close to his chest. For half a heartbeat Harry’s mind is empty, stuttering to a stop alongside the car, and then Merlin puts his lips over his, whispers, “Play along,” and goes in for the full kiss.

Strictly speaking, Harry finds himself thinking, wildly, deliriously, as their lips move together, this isn’t a gay bar they’re outside. The area is seedy enough, however, that he doesn’t think it will really matter, not when a troop of rentboys is standing down the street. Merlin shifts his body so that he can see over Harry’s shoulder, resting his hands on Harry’s arse, and Harry loses the will to think any further, shifting himself so that he’s nuzzling Merlin’s neck as the magician strokes his arse.

“They’re still stopped but inside,” Merlin whispers against the top of Harry’s head, squeezing his left hand so that Harry gives a very real whine in response. “Five meters off us, maybe, not looking this way.” He continues massaging, and Harry finds himself thinking—absurdly—how glad he is that Merlin is here to hold him up. Harry leans in further when he hears the car move on.

“Did a handoff of some sort, I think, before starting again. Both still inside at last visual contact. Arthur was bloody right, though—bloke’s a bruiser, twice as large as I am and probably twice as deadly, by the look of his biceps.”

Harry hums against Merlin’s neck. “Simple payment?”

“Smyth was the one passing. What kinda whore pays for the right to fuck?”

“A horny, cocky one with leverage? No, sorry, I don’t know, just running my mouth.”

Merlin pushes Harry off him at that, holding him an arm’s length away. It’s stupidly startling, but Harry can’t help but be pleased when he sees the grin on Merlin’s face. “Your mouth might be smarter than you know.”

“Arms dealing is leverage,” Harry agrees, biting his lip. “Bit of a handoff upfront, the sex, and the rest of the lot?”

“Aye, I see it. Not pieces, though, not here—that was no gun.”

“Money, then, or contractual plans, or whatever.” Harry is keenly aware of Merlin’s grip around his waist, still keeping him upright; the man’s palm burns against his lower back. “Boy spreads whatever info’s needed, or collects money, or passes it along, and the dealers get a taste of him in return as reward.”

“Bloody nice employee perks, if you like the posh blond infant sort.” Merlin’s hand _strokes_ , and Harry, who had almost believed that his partner had forgotten their predicament, wants to close his eyes and cry. He hasn’t been touched, even platonically, by someone he actually likes in ages, and Merlin is staring down at him with gratifyingly wide eyes. “It’s not my type.”

“Do we wait a bit, see if Smyth comes back for a second round?” Harry asks, because even though Merlin’s hands are broad and warm and all too close to driving him to complete distraction, this _is_ , somehow, still a mission and, perhaps, _only_ a mission, in the end.

“If we are, I want deeper cover,” Merlin says in his ear, and Harry shivers. “Easy and slow and absurd, draw just enough attention to be amusing and peg ourselves as dumb horny poofs and most assuredly not anything else. If you...don’t mind.”

It’s the easiest cover Harry has had in months; he nods, fervently, and then pulls away. “Not here. I’m not snogging any further against a bar wall.”

Merlin snorts. “Would you prefer the street corner with the other idiots out tonight?”

“The pitch,” Harry decides, before even knowing whether that’s possible.

“Breaking and entering. I like your style.” Merlin stretches, and Harry’s eyes follow the curve of his chest. “While you were cozying on up against my neck—”

“You had your hands all over my arse.”

“—I happened to have a view of the situation—”

“And your hands all over my arse.”

“—and I think one of the gates is unlocked. Someone has an eye out for the local restless schoolkids.”

Harry simply turns at that and starts across the street, tangling his fingers with Merlin’s. By now they seem to have drawn the attention of the street corner; one boy hoots.

“Care for a third, sirs?”

Merlin shoots him a lecherous look but shakes his head; Harry looks down at the ground as if ashamed, a conveniently real blush staining his cheeks.

They settle on the grass not far inside the gate; this time Harry arranges himself with a view of the street and corner, allowing Merlin to lean over him with his hands braced on the ground on either side of his shoulders.

“Visuals okay?” Merlin asks, brushing his lips against Harry’s jawline.

Harry grunts in affirmation, keeping one eye on the street corner and one hand on Merlin’s arse as the mouthing continues. “Not the steadiest view— _god_ —” Merlin’s slid his tongue across his stubble “—but pleasant enough.”

“Forgive me if I don’t entirely want Smyth’s brute to blow his load too soon.” Merlin moves to Harry’s neck, forcing out another groan. “You are far more delightful than the cad I had to trap the last time I was allowed outside.”

Harry’s prick, already stirring, jolts at that; Merlin reaches down to cup it through his jeans as his other hand begins unzipping Harry’s jacket.

“It’s fucking freezing,” Harry grumbles, reaching for Merlin’s zip with fumbling hands. “If you’re gonna do that—” and he is; Harry shrugs out of the sleeves even as he complains “—you better have enough body heat for the both of us.”

“That’s my responsibility now? Aren’t you the senior agent?”

“You seduced me!” Harry is writhing against Merlin’s hands on his prick like a two-bit whore, and he’s still fully in his pants. “If you’re trying to prove your worth— _fuck_ —” Merlin teases his trouser zip “—I get it. I’ll give Arthur a good— _Christ_.”

“Not a bloody word to Arthur,” Merlin growls in his ear as his fingers finally close around Harry’s prick itself. “‘How was the mission?’ ‘Oh, you know, just got off against my partner in the grass; he’s mighty good though—’”

“High opinion of your own worth.” Harry grunts as Merlin begins jerking him, slow teasing strokes around the head that make his hips buck. “Longer; there’s a whole shaft there.”

“Demanding.” The strokes lengthen nonetheless, beginning with Merlin’s hands brushing Harry’s balls and ending with a slight twist of the glans. Merlin has a certain way of rubbing foreskin that has Harry breathless in two strokes, feeling skin sliding, luxuriously, in multiple layers at once. He’s given up on Merlin’s trousers entirely and thrown his hands to the side, digging fingers into the turf beneath them. Merlin’s smile is predatory as he notices this. “That’s it, Hart—get down with your dirty side. Christ, what a sight you are in pieces beneath me, hair all fucked up at last.

Harry tosses his head, twice, a dog shaking off water, and Merlin laughs, a loud bark that echoes. Harry arches up to cover Merlin’s mouth with his, tightening his grip on the grass as he does so. Merlin transfers one hand to Harry’s chest, sliding beneath his shirt to stroke in time with his grip on his prick; an occasional flick against a nipple makes Harry grunt.

“Too pretty—you’d never pull our friend Smyth,” Merlin whispers, burying his mouth against Harry’s stubble again. His strokes increase in speed, and Harry feels the pressure of his orgasm building, low and insistent. “Works for me, though.” His lips tickling Harry’s skin only add to the inexorable slide downward. “Pretty, uptight, funny, and melting beneath me.”

Harry’s leg jerks at that, and he arches off the ground once more. “Merlin—”

“You’re a sight well-fucked, star of my damned wet dreams for a week after this—”

And Harry is gone, his moan remarkably quiet as he spills over Merlin’s hand and sinks back to the turf. They’re silent for a good two minutes, breathing in the scents of dirt, grass, and sweat; Merlin leans over Harry with a fond look on his face as Harry’s eyes flit back and forth between Merlin’s sweaty bald head and the street corner. Eventually Harry turns his attention to Merlin’s jeans, distended from the pressure of his prick behind them.

“I could hang bloody portraits with this,” Merlin groans as Harry unzips him.

“Such a handy fellow,” Harry whispers, and then he twists, Merlin yelping softly as his shoulders hit the grass and Harry arranges himself over him. “No leverage from below,” he explains, taking a loose grip on Merlin’s prick. “Keep your eyes on the prize, remember.”

“Fucker.” Merlin fixes his gaze over Harry’s shoulder nonetheless as Harry begins stroking. “I like the head, you cock, so no need to reach.”

Harry keeps his attention focused on the head of Merlin’s prick, short strokes and circles that have Merlin’s hips thrusting beneath him in a minute’s time. His mouth fixes on Merlin’s shoulder, working a bruise there as Merlin swears, short, sharp grunts that vibrate through his chest and into Harry’s own mouth.

“Tighter,” Merlin says after a few minutes, his voice going lower and softer still, legs jerking. Harry obeys, sitting up enough to focus his attention fully on Merlin’s prick as Merlin’s eyes, still staring beyond him, begin to cross. “Oh god—headlights— _you unholy fucker_.”

Harry has bent and taken the head of Merlin’s prick in his mouth. He flicks his tongue, once, twice, and opens his throat as wide as he can to take in the resulting rush of salt as Merlin comes. As soon as it’s done he rolls to the side and watches as a car comes to a halt outside the bar and Smyth emerges.

“That’s fifteen minutes,” he murmurs while Merlin pants near his ear. “Don’t know whether to be embarrassed for us or for Smyth.”

“We’re just fitting to the mission,” Merlin argues. “I can go much longer than that.”

“If you say so.” Harry smiles nonetheless. “We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

Merlin grunts and threads his fingers through Harry’s hair. “Cuddle up here for the benefit of our friends on the corner.”

“Oh, for the corner boys, of course.” Harry straddles Merlin and lays down, kissing him thoroughly. Merlin tastes of cigarette and wastes no time in cupping Harry’s arse once more and squeezing as he kisses back.

“Don’t want you to freeze,” Merlin murmurs when they break apart for air, wrapping his arms more tightly around Harry. “It would be a shame to lose that arse.”

“My _arse_ isn’t the part of me that’s cold.” Harry burrows against the bulk of Merlin’s body. “You just like it.”

“Because I’m a man of sense.” Merlin kisses him again, offering a hint of tongue that Harry takes full advantage of, before eventually pushing him into the grass once more and reaching for the discarded leather jacket. “Bundle yourself up properly and let’s head back to report.”

They do just that, crossing the intersection hand in hand, Merlin tossing cheery invectives back at the hooting boys.

“Next time, maybe, you mangy cunts.”

Out of the corner of his eye Harry notes the long, searching glance Smyth gives Merlin and chokes back a laugh. “I will offer to pay Arthur to have you make the sting.”

“Don’t reward him,” Merlin grumbles, tightening his grip on Harry’s hand even as they pass out of sight of the boys. “I’m just the technician anyway.”

“I believe the proper term is _magician_.” Harry hesitates for a few moments before sliding an arm around Merlin’s waist, under his jacket, palm flat and fingers splaying gently beneath the belt of his jeans. They walk the remaining minutes to their separation point like that in silence, eventually coming to a halt in front of the designated bus stop. “Thank you for the smoke and the shag.”

“I like scotch as well,” Merlin remarks as they separate. “Father sends me Talisker quarterly, for me and all my fellow engineer friends to drink.” When Harry snorts, he continues, “Needless to say, in actuality all it does is sit there and taunt me. Would you like to be tempted?”

“Too late for that.” Harry smiles and sets off, looking back over his shoulder to answer properly. “The lab, after Arthur’s done?”

Merlin’s smile is filthy. “A good place to start.”

 


End file.
